“You should see him at dinner,” I thought; or rather I meant to think it, but the words slipped out. I found myself thinking aloud in a rather disconcerting way while sitting with this strange little person.
He looked at me. I noticed for the first time that his eyes were slate blue, with funny birds’ foot wrinkles at the corners.
“That’s so,” he said. “I never thought of that. A fine prose style certainly presupposes sound nourishment. Excellent point that … And yet Thoreau did his own cooking. A sort of Boy Scout I guess, with a badge as kitchen master. Perhaps he took Beechnut bacon with him into the woods. I wonder who cooked for Stevenson—Cummy? The ‘Child’s Garden of Verses’ was really a kind of kitchen garden, wasn’t it? I’m afraid the commissariat problem has weighed rather heavily on you. I’m glad you’ve got away from it.”
All this was getting rather intricate for me. I set it down as I remember it, inaccurately perhaps. My governess days are pretty far astern now, and my line is common sense rather than literary allusions. I said something of the sort.
“Common sense?” he repeated. “Good Lord, ma’am, sense is the most uncommon thing in the world. I haven’t got it. I don’t believe your brother has, from what you say. Bock here has it. See how he trots along the road, keeps an eye on the scenery, and minds his own business. I never saw him get into a fight yet. Wish I could say the same of myself. I named him after Boccaccio, to remind me to read the ‘Decameron’ some day.”
“Judging by the way you talk,” I said, “you ought to be quite a writer yourself.”
“Talkers never write. They go on talking.”
There was a considerable silence. Mifflin relit his pipe and watched the landscape with a shrewd eye. I held the reins loosely, and Peg ambled along with a steady clop-clop. Parnassus creaked musically, and the mid-afternoon sun lay rich across the road. We passed another farm, but I did not suggest stopping as I felt we ought to push on. Mifflin seemed lost in meditation, and I began to wonder, a little uneasily, how the adventure would turn out. This quaintly masterful little man was a trifle disconcerting. Across the next ridge I could see the Greenbriar church spire shining white.
“Do you know this part of the country?” I asked finally.
“Not this exact section. I’ve been in Port Vigor often, but then I was on the road that runs along the Sound. I suppose this village ahead is Greenbriar?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s about thirteen miles from there to Port Vigor. How do you expect to get back to Brooklyn?”
“Oh, Brooklyn?” he said vaguely. “Yes, I’d forgotten about Brooklyn for the minute. I was thinking of my book. Why, I guess I’ll take the train from Port Vigor. The trouble is, you can never get to Brooklyn without going through New York. It’s symbolic, I suppose.”
Again there was a silence. Finally he said, “Is there another town between Greenbriar and Port Vigor?”
“Yes, Shelby,” I said. “About five miles from Greenbriar.”
“That’ll be as far as you’ll get to-night,” he said. “I’ll see you safe to Shelby, and then make tracks for Port Vigor. I hope there’s a decent inn at Shelby where you can stop overnight.”
I hoped so, too, but I wasn’t going to let him see that with the waning afternoon my enthusiasm was a little less robust. I was wondering what Andrew was thinking, and whether Mrs. McNally had left things in good order. Like most Swedes she had to be watched or she left her work only three quarters done. And I didn’t depend any too much on her daughter Rosie to do the housework efficiently. I wondered what kind of meals Andrew would get. And probably he would go right on wearing his summer underclothes, although I had already reminded him about changing. Then there were the chickens …
Well, the Rubicon was crossed now, and there was nothing to be done.
To my surprise, little Redbeard had divined my anxiety. “Now don’t you worry about the Sage,” he said kindly. “A man that draws his royalties isn’t going to starve. By the bones of John Murray, his publishers can send him a cook if necessary! This is a holiday for you, and don’t you forget it.”
And with this cheering sentiment in my mind, we rolled sedately down the hill toward Greenbriar.
I am about as hardy as most folks, I think, but I confess I balked a little at the idea of facing the various people I know in Greenbriar as the owner of a bookvan and the companion of a literary huckster. Also I recollected that if Andrew should try to trace us it would be as well for me to keep out of sight. So after telling Mr. Mifflin how I felt about matters I dived into the Parnassus and lay down most comfortably on the bunk. Bock the terrier joined me, and I rested there in great comfort of mind and body as we ambled down the grade. The sun shone through the little skylight gilding a tin pan that hung over the cook stove. Tacked here and there were portraits of authors, and I noticed a faded newspaper cutting pinned up. The headlines ran: “Literary Pedlar Lectures on Poetry.” I read it through. Apparently the Professor (so I had begun to call him, as the aptness of the nickname stuck in my mind) had given a lecture in Camden, N.J., where he had asserted that Tennyson was a greater poet than Walt Whitman; and the boosters of the Camden poet had enlivened the evening with missiles. It seems that the chief Whitman disciple in Camden is Mr. Traubel; and Mr. Mifflin had started the rumpus by asserting that Tennyson, too, had “Traubels of his own.” What an absurd creature the Professor was, I thought, as I lay comfortably lulled by the rolling wheels.
Greenbriar is a straggling little town, built around a large common meadow. Mifflin’s general plan in towns, he had told me, was to halt Parnassus in front of the principal store or hotel, and when a little throng had gathered he would put up the flaps of the van, distribute his cards, and deliver a harangue on the value of good books. I lay concealed inside, but I gathered from the sounds that this was what was happening. We came to a stop; I heard a growing murmur of voices and laughter outside, and then the click of the raised sides of the wagon. I heard Mifflin’s shrill, slightly nasal voice making facetious remarks as he passed out the cards. Evidently Bock was quite accustomed to the routine, for though his tail wagged gently when the Professor began to talk, he lay quite peaceably dozing at my feet.
“My friends,” said Mr. Mifflin. “You remember Abe Lincoln’s joke about the dog? If you call a tail a leg, said Abe, how many legs has a dog? Five, you answer. No, says Abe; because calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg. Well, there are lots of us in the same case as that dog’s tail. Calling us men doesn’t make us men. No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesn’t know at least one good book. The man that spends every evening chewing Piper Heidsieck at the store is unworthy to catch the intimations of a benevolent Creator. The man that’s got a few good books on his shelf is making his wife happy, giving his children a square deal, and he’s likely to be a better citizen himself. How about that, parson?”
I heard the deep voice of Reverend Kane, the Methodist minister: “You’re dead right, Professor!” he shouted. “Tell us some more about books. I’m right with you!” Evidently Mr. Kane had been attracted by the sight of Parnassus, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he pulled one or two books from the shelves. How surprised he would have been if he had known I was inside the van! I took the precaution of slipping the bolt of the door at the back, and drew the curtains. Then I crept back into the bunk. I began to imagine what an absurd situation there would be if Andrew should arrive on the scene.
“You are all used to hucksters and pedlars and fellows selling every kind of junk from brooms to bananas,” said the Professor’s voice. “But how often does any one come round here to sell you books? You’ve got your town library, I dare say; but there are some books that folks ought to own. I’ve got ’em all here from Bibles to cook books. They’ll speak for themselves. Step up to the shelves, friends, and pick and choose.”
I heard the parson asking the price of something he had found on the shelves, and I believe he bought it; but the hum of vo
ices around the flanks of Parnassus was very soothing, and in spite of my interest in what was going on I’m afraid I fell asleep. I must have been pretty tired; anyway I never felt the van start again. The Professor says he looked in through the little window from the driver’s seat, and saw me sound asleep. And the next thing I knew I woke up with a start to find myself rolling leisurely in the dark. Bock was still lying over my feet, and there was a faint, musical clang from the bucket under the van which struck against something now and then. The Professor was sitting in front, with a lighted lantern hanging from the peak of the van roof. He was humming some outlandish song to himself, with a queer, monotonous refrain:
Shipwrecked was I off Soft Perowse
And right along the shore,
And so I did resolve to roam
The country to explore.
Tommy rip fal lal and a balum tip
Tommy rip fal lal I dee;
And so I did resolve to roam
The country for to see!
I jumped out of the bunk, cracked my shins against something, and uttered a rousing halloo. Parnassus stopped, and the Professor pushed back the sliding window behind the driver’s seat.
“Heavens!” I said. “Father Time, what o’clock is it?”
“Pretty near supper time, I reckon. You must have fallen asleep while I was taking money from the Philistines. I made nearly three dollars for you. Let’s pull up along the road and have a bite to eat.”
He guided Pegasus to one side of the road, and then showed me how to light the swinging lamp that hung under the skylight. “No use to light the stove on a lovely evening like this,” he said. “I’ll collect some sticks and we can cook outside. You get out your basket of grub and I’ll make a fire.” He unhitched Pegasus, tied her to a tree, and gave her a nose bag of oats. Then he rooted around for some twigs and had a fire going in a jiffy. In five minutes I had bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling in a frying pan, and he had brought out a pail of water from the cooler under the bunk, and was making tea.
I never enjoyed a picnic so much! It was a perfect autumn evening, windless and frosty, with a dead black sky and a tiny rim of new moon like a thumb-nail paring. We had our eggs and bacon, washed down with tea and condensed milk, and followed by bread and jam. The little fire burned blue and cozy, and we sat on each side of it while Bock scoured the pan and ate the crusts.
“This your own bread, Miss McGill?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I was calculating the other day that I’ve baked more than 400 loaves a year for the last fifteen years. That’s more than 6,000 loaves of bread. They can put that on my tombstone.”
“The art of baking bread is as transcendent a mystery as the art of making sonnets,” said Redbeard. “And then your hot biscuits—they might be counted as shorter lyrics, I suppose—triolets perhaps. That makes quite an anthology, or a doxology, if you prefer it.”
“Yeast is yeast, and West is West,” I said, and was quite surprised at my own cleverness. I hadn’t made a remark like that to Andrew in five years.
“I see you are acquainted with Kipling,” he said.
“Oh, yes, every governess is.”
“Where and whom did you govern?”
“I was in New York, with the family of a wealthy stockbroker. There were three children. I used to take them walking in Central Park.”
“Did you ever go to Brooklyn?” he asked abruptly.
“Never,” I replied.
“Ah!” he said. “That’s just the trouble. New York is Babylon; Brooklyn is the true Holy City. New York is the city of envy, office work, and hustle; Brooklyn is the region of homes and happiness. It is extraordinary: poor, harassed New Yorkers presume to look down on low-lying, home-loving Brooklyn, when as a matter of fact it is the precious jewel their souls are thirsting for and they never know it. Broadway: think how symbolic the name is. Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction! But in Brooklyn the ways are narrow, and they lead to the Heavenly City of content. Central Park: there you are—the centre of things, hemmed in by walls of pride. Now how much better is Prospect Park, giving a fair view over the hills of humility! There is no hope for New Yorkers, for they glory in their skyscraping sins; but in Brooklyn there is the wisdom of the lowly.”
“So you think that if I had been a governess in Brooklyn I should have been so contented that I would never have come with Andrew and compiled my anthology of 6,000 loaves of bread and the lesser lyrics?”
But the volatile Professor had already soared to other points of view, and was not to be thwarted by argument.
“Of course Brooklyn is a dingy place, really,” he admitted. “But to me it symbolizes a state of mind, whereas New York is only a state of pocket. You see I was a boy in Brooklyn: it still trails clouds of glory for me. When I get back there and start work on my book I shall be as happy as Nebuchadnezzar when he left off grass and returned to tea and crumpets. ‘Literature Among the Farmers’ I’m going to call it, but that’s a poor title. I’d like to read you some of my notes for it.”
I’m afraid I poorly concealed a yawn. As a matter of fact I was sleepy, and it was growing chilly.
“Tell me first,” I said, “where in the world are we, and what time is it?”
He pulled out a turnip watch. “It’s nine o’clock,” he said, “and we’re about two miles from Shelby, I should reckon. Perhaps we’d better get along. They told me in Greenbriar that the Grand Central Hotel in Shelby is a good place to stop at. That’s why I wasn’t anxious to get there. It sounds so darned like New York.”
He bundled the cooking utensils back into Parnassus, hitched Peg up again, and tied Bock to the stern of the van. Then he insisted on giving me the two dollars and eighty cents he had collected in Greenbriar. I was really too sleepy to protest, and of course it was mine anyway. We creaked off along the dark and silent road between the pine woods. I think he talked fluently about his pilgrim’s progress among the farmers of a dozen states, but (to be honest) I fell asleep in my corner of the seat. I woke up when we halted before the one hotel in Shelby—a plain, unimposing country inn, despite its absurd name. I left him to put Parnassus and the animals away for the night, while I engaged a room. Just as I got my key from the clerk he came into the dingy lobby.
“Well, Mr. Mifflin,” I said. “Shall I see you in the morning?”
“I had intended to push on to Port Vigor to-night,” he said, “but as it’s fully eight miles (they tell me), I guess I’ll bivouac here. I think I’ll go into the smoking-room and put them wise to some good books. We won’t say good-bye till to-morrow.”
My room was pleasant and clean (fairly so). I took my suit case up with me and had a hot bath. As I fell asleep I heard a shrill voice ascending from below, punctuated with masculine laughter. The Pilgrim was making more converts!
VI
I had a curious feeling of bewilderment when I woke the next morning. The bare room with the red-and-blue rag carpet and green china toilet set was utterly strange. In the hall outside I heard a clock strike. “Heavens!” I thought, “I’ve overslept myself nearly two hours. What on earth will Andrew do for breakfast?” And then as I ran to close the window I saw the blue Parnassus with its startling red letters standing in the yard. Instantly I remembered. And discreetly peeping from behind the window shade I saw that the Professor, armed with a tin of paint, was blotting out his own name on the side of the van, evidently intending to substitute mine. That was something I had not thought of. However, I might as well make the best of it.
I dressed promptly, repacked my bag, and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The long table was nearly empty, but one or two men sitting at the other end eyed me curiously. Through the window I could see my name in large, red letters, growing on the side of the van, as the Professor diligently wielded his brush. And when I had finished my coffee and beans and bacon I noticed with some amusement that the Professor had painted out the line about Shakespeare, Charles Lamb, and so on, and had substituted new lettering. The si
gn now read:
H. McGILL’S
TRAVELLING PARNASSUS
GOOD BOOKS FOR SALE
COOK BOOKS A SPECIALTY
INQUIRE WITHIN
Evidently he distrusted my familiarity with the classics.
I paid my bill at the desk, and was careful also to pay the charge for putting up the horse and van overnight. Then I strolled into the stable yard, where I found Mr. Mifflin regarding his handiwork with satisfaction. He had freshened up all the red lettering, which shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight.
“Good-morning,” I said.
He returned it.
“There!” he cried—“Parnassus is really yours! All the world lies before you! And I’ve got some more money for you. I sold some books last night. I persuaded the hotel keeper to buy several volumes of O. Henry for his smoking-room shelf, and I sold the ‘Waldorf Cook Book’ to the cook. My! wasn’t her coffee awful? I hope the cook book will better it.”
He handed me two limp bills and a handful of small change. I took it gravely and put it in my purse. This was really not bad—more than ten dollars in less than twenty-four hours.
“Parnassus seems to be a gold mine,” I said.
“Which way do you think you’ll go?” he asked.
“Well, as I know you want to get to Port Vigor I might just as well give you a lift that way,” I answered.
“Good! I was hoping you’d say that. They tell me the stage for Port Vigor doesn’t leave till noon, and I think it would kill me to hang around here all morning with no books to sell. Once I get on the train I’ll be all right.”
Bock was tied up in a corner of the yard, under the side door of the hotel. I went over to release him while the Professor was putting Peg into harness. As I stooped to unfasten the chain from his collar I heard some one talking through the telephone. The hotel lobby was just over my head, and the window was open.
“What did you say?”
“____ ____ ____ ____”
“McGill? Yes, sir, registered here last night. She’s here now.”